Finding Your Mythic Theme

Today’s guest is Bruce Holsinger, an award-winning fiction writer, critic, and literary scholar who teaches at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. His debut historical novel, A Burnable Book, won the John Hurt Fisher Prize and was shortlisted for the American Library Association’s Best Crime Novel of 2014, while his scholarly work has been recognized with a Guggenheim Fellowship and other major awards. He has written for The Washington Post, Slate, The Nation, and other publications, and appears regularly on National Public Radio. His new novel, The Invention of Fire, imagines the beginnings of gun violence in the western world.

As a teacher of literature to university students, I often lecture about the power of myth, which shapes so many of our greatest stories, whether in ancient epics or contemporary fiction. Recognizing the mythic element of my own novel in progress a couple of years ago was a huge boost during revision, helping me see the book’s larger theme and the ways I might draw it out more effectively during final rewrites. I wanted to share this sense of “myth as craft” with the readers of Writer Unboxed, a site that’s been a great resource for me in recent years.

“Myth,” Italo Calvino wrote, “is the hidden part of every story, the buried part, the region that is still unexplored.” Despite the ubiquity of myth in fiction of all varieties, most writers would likely have a hard time identifying the mythic narratives, devices, and archetypes informing our novels and stories. Fantasy literature, of course, is built on myth, yet these elements can be difficult to discern (let alone exploit) in other fiction genres, whether romance, mystery, or suspense.

In this post I want to talk about the potentially galvanizing effects of myth as an element of craft, and particularly of story and character. As a writer of realistic historical fiction, I work in a genre that seems naturally predisposed against myth. But the narrative structure and thematic power of myths shouldn’t be regarded as resources only for writers of fantasy or science fiction. The history of mythology contains enduring elements that can help writers in all genres shape their plots, identify their underlying themes, and infuse character arcs with the same sorts of aspirations, challenges, and dark twists found in the stories of Orpheus, Persephone, or Isis.

It’s no accident that Donald Maass, in Writing the Breakout Novel, emphasizes myth asan invaluable component of story and character. Discussing Thomas Harris’s The Silence of the Lambs, Maass comments on the novel’s portrayal of Clarice Starling as an “Everywoman” trapped in a story with the highest stakes imaginable: “Harris makes her so not by wishing it but by setting her a task that is truly impossible, one akin to the tasks set for the gods of mythology, then pushing her to extremes of effort. Her role becomes truly heroic.” Myth has a darker side as well, showing us fallible human beings who succumb to temptation, lured by boundless riches or the promise of immortality.

Even in fiction set in decidedly non-mythic environments, myth can give writers a compelling toolkit for assembling stories with universal appeal—and this is true even of that most doggedly realist of genres, historical fiction. Some of the most influential works of historical fiction in the nineteenth century enlisted mythic stories of past eras that nevertheless spoke to the concerns of contemporary audiences. Walter Scott’s Waverley novels drew on popular myths of the Scottish Highlands but transformed them into stories praised for their realism. Gustav Flaubert’s Salammbô plays throughout with the myth of Persephone, represented by the titular character as she moves from camp to camp.

[pullquote]The role of myth in contemporary historical fiction is often less explicit, though some of the most respected historical novelists enlist their own mythic elements to tremendous effect.[/pullquote]The role of myth in contemporary historical fiction is often less explicit, though some of the most respected historical novelists enlist their own mythic elements to tremendous effect. Consider Anthony Doerr’s All the Light We Cannot See, which, despite its gritty setting in a Europe experiencing the ravishments of war, centers around the myth of a shimmering gem that promises immortality to its possessors—and dreadful misfortune to their loved ones. Writers of realistic fiction shouldn’t shy away from myth as a creative element in the difficult process of world building.

This point came home to me as I was revising my second novel, a historical thriller that imagines the beginnings of gun violence in the Western world. One of the book’s central themes concerns the consequences of technological revolution. A London smith, Stephen Marsh, is commissioned to develop a more efficient version of the handgonne, a new form of gunpowder weapon, and his secretive crafting of this new gun leads him down a dark road of lethal ambition and moral compromise. During revision it became increasingly difficult for me to discern the novel’s larger theme. The plot and main subplot weren’t coming together, and I was struggling with the development of Stephen’s character. The epiphany came during a long conversation with my agent, who made an offhand observation about the subplot’s central character. “So Stephen Marsh is a bit of a Prometheus,” she said. Prometheus, of course, was the Titan who stole fire from Olympus as a gift to mankind, earning himself an eternal punishment chained to the side of a mountain, tormented by birds of prey. Thinking about the myth of Prometheus not only allowed me to recognize and develop the book’s theme during revision, but also gave the novel its final title: The Invention of Fire. Just as Prometheus brings fire to mankind, Stephen introduces a new kind of gun into the world, with all the disturbing implications this technological transformation carries with it.

And there it was: my whole novel in a mythological nutshell.

I hope these reflections will encourage fellow writers to find and exploit the myths underlying their own novels and stories—and look to other myths for inspiration. The myth of Orpheus and Eurydice rewritten as a contemporary thriller? An FBI agent rescues her lover from the clutches of kidnappers, only to lose him when she flaunts the ethical codes that made the attempted rescue possible. The myth of Persephone recast as psychological suspense? A man’s wife disappears without explanation for months at a time, only to return from the dark world she inhabits filled with horrible secrets she refuses to divulge.

These are rather glib suggestions, and I don’t mean to propose such a mechanical relationship between existing myths and new fiction. But if Calvino is right that myth is the “hidden part of every story,” we writers should be taking every opportunity we can to nurture and develop the mythical dimensions of our own stories before sending them out into the world for readers to discover.

What mythic elements can you see in your writing? How can you see using “myth as craft” to help you fully draw out your writing projects?

Comments

“Myth as craft.” What an inspiring post today, Bruce. I have a question, if you wouldn’t mind addressing. Do you think this mythical dimension happens organically from the character/story as it rides the fictional world of the story telling? Or, is this something that the writer designs into the character/story? You say your agent observed this Prometheus idea for you, so was it already in the story at some level or did you redesign it into the story?

Great question, Paula. I think this element was already in the story, and it took some conversations and broad thinking to bring it out–but that doesn’t mean it can’t also be designed, as you put it. I was lucky to see this aspect of the story *before* revision, and it was the revision process that helped me see how it had arisen organically from the characters and setting, and even the historical moment to some extent. Thanks for the reaction!

Bruce,
My protagonist, Cassie, is a reflection of Cassandra, the woman who wasn’t believed. As you say, those archetypes are there, buried deep, but always present. Im always amazed at how wise the ancients were in giving form and voice to our human tendencies. And here we are, still doing it. Only these days we give them guns, badges, high heels and wizard hats.
My stories also have a lot of irish/Scottish mythology at their foundation, especially Finn McCool, as a symbol of defiance. Defiance is an important theme for me, as is taking a stand against tyranny. These things get my blood going every morning. Thank you for a wonderful post.

Thanks so much, Susan. Yes, Cassandra! My current WIP has a Cassandra/sybil figure at the center of the narrative, though I suppose I haven’t thought of her that way so far, at least not as explicitly as you have. Glad you found the post helpful.

Hmm, Bruce, I might even go so far as to say that ALL stories are rooted in myth, in some form or another.
Myths are stories passed through generations, twisted with the times, but valued in some way, for the lessons they teach. Even society’s current love of vampires, mermaids, druids, and all things fairy tale is deeply rooted in ancient mythology.
I’ve done years of research for my book, A Keeper’s Truth (out this Fall), studying ancient mythology and how it equates into current day belief systems and story telling. Fascinating stuff. Especially when you consider how myths evolve and spread to every corner of the earth, over a multitude of cultures, and endure for generations.
Goodness, just thinking about the possibilities gives me goose pimples.

Thanks so much for mentioning my book, coming from a writer and scholar of your caliber it’s an honor.

My appreciation of the utility of mythology (and mythological characters in particular) in writing fiction has only grown. Myths have mythical stature for a reason. They enact the conflicts and dilemmas that underlie all human experience. They tell us about the gods.

Myths cross cultures and transcend era, so why not use them now as templates or, better still, as touchstones in crafting stories? Even if a reader does not know the myth of Prometheus, the reader will get the responsibility laid upon the one who puts godlike fire(power) in the hands of flawed mortals.

Historical fiction is really about today. Contemporary literature harks to the past. It cannot help but do so. We are mortals but we can make our stories immortal. Thanks for your thoughts on that today.

Thanks so much for the kind words, Don, and for your book, which has helped me an awful lot in conceiving my current work in progress. I’m glad you agree about the importance and the *reach* of myth. Great stuff!

I will twist it a bit: What mythic elements did you design into your story?

One of my always-at-hand reference books is James N. Frey’s ‘How to write damn good fiction using the power of myth.’

My copy is heavily annotated, because Pride’s Children is a version of the Hero(ine)’s Journey, and there is a wealth of how-to information in Frey’s book.

Like foreshadowing, myth can be used before (during plotting), during (while writing), and after (editing, revision) deliberately and consciously by writers to get a particular effect, and have the final version of the story be as smooth as those tales the bards told with a lute by the fire in the Lord of the Manor’s great hall, stories polished by repetition and handing-down until they had reached the stage of myth themselves.

Frey shows you, step by step, how to construct a story based on myth. It is all well and good to want a story to end up that way, but the particulars matter quite a lot.

I will always be grateful that, for his main example – a story developed through the book using all his craft – he chose a female protagonist, which meant I could see not only the Hero, but how the story had to change if it were, instead, a Heroine.

It takes longer and more words to layer in myth, but I think the results are worth the effort and time.

A very partial list of the things I have deliberately included:
‘Like the Hero, the Evil One may be full of Hubris’ (also known as Pride)
‘The Hero[ine] is usually considered sexually appealing’
‘The Hero has been wounded…or is wounded in the course of the story’ (check, and check)
‘The Hero[ine] usually is stoic’

I won’t bore you with the details, but it has reached the point where, when I start the next novel, I will have to buy a clean copy of Frey’s book – and be glad.

Life is full of coincidence, as yesterday I took a book from my shelf that my professor brother had given me, but which I have never read: Italian Folktales, Selected and Retold by Italo Calvino. Now I will. In one of my novels, I did use the myth of Prometheus, as the main character is the victim of a terrible fire. Myth fascinates and fuels and yes–we should use it more often in our own “modern” work. Thanks so much.

Myths are about confronting death. Physical, spiritual, psychological. They’re about transformation out of the death struggle into a new existence and (as my teaching colleague Chris Vogler would say) returning to the community with “the elixir.” I think all great stories do this to one degree or another, with the readers as the ultimate community. Which is why I’m always describing plot as the record of how a character fights with death. Just taking that much away from the mythic paradigm ensures a solid foundation for fiction. Then it’s a matter of rendering that record with craft and care. Thanks for the post, Bruce.

I’m looking forward to meeting you this summer. You’ll be on the faculty for the Book Passage Mystery Writers’ Conference, and so will I (I’m co-chair, with Cara Black.)

This is a post I intend to share with my current students, because I agree that recognizing the mythic or thematic underpinnings of our stories deepens their meaning and broadens their appeal. (I sometimes ask my students to identify the key themes they find themselves returning to over and over as writers, and upon identifying them, embrace them.)

I also would like to point out something that may seem obvious but I think gets to how myth can be employed wisely or unwisely.

It interests me greatly that you did not notice the Promethean analogy at first. Indeed it had to be pointed out to you. But it was there, you just hadn’t seen it. It was already part of the fabric of the tale as you’d constructed it, working hard and honestly on the material.

I find the best mythic elements are the ones that emerge in this fashion, arising after the fact rather than in the planning. Drag in the mythic archetypes too soon and you risk writing a formulaic rehash of some other story.

Put another way: myth is inherent to our way of seeing the world, shaping our understanding, and evaluating experience. We can no more avoid it than dismiss our recognition of color.

I addressed this in my own post two days ago, where I discussed my belated discovery that I had my own personal archetypes, though I only recognized them (he says, sheepishly) after writing five novels.

I also say something along these lines in THE ART OF CHARACTER, concerning the use of archetypes in developing characters:

If archetypes work for you, by all means use them. Artists are magpies; we gather up all manner of curious stuff. But mythic heft doesn’t come cheap. You can identify a character as Mentor or Trickster, Warrior or Lost Soul, Shadow or Herald, but dramatic urgency isn’t created by nomenclature. Too often, such terms just become new rags draped on the same old scarecrow. Even if such catchwords evoke a kind of symbolic or mythic resonance, that doesn’t create desire—and desire is what prompts action, and action defines character. Without deep creative imagining and intuitive engagement, a character based on an idea will remain an idea, whether that inspiring thought arose from an ancient heroic saga or something Aunt Milly said. But if you dig beneath the clutter of words and concepts to where the wildness stirs—the depths of your own reckless heart—the myth business will take care of itself.

Wonderful post. Looking forward to making your further acquaintance in July.

I’m so glad you said something, and yes, I’m really looking forward to meeting you too! Book Passage sounds amazing–rigorous, probably exhausting, but exciting, and I’m very flattered to be a participant along with you and the other faculty. And thanks very much for your kind words about the post. I agree with you entirely–we don’t want to *impose* mythic elements on our stories, particularly early on in the writing process. I hope your students find the post useful. Thanks so much for the generous response.